Asylums and hospitals
are for the once
respected
For me, it is the reality beneath the music
the reality that forces you to sit and think
Tomorrow
reminds me of how good today is
My now phantasmagoric eyes
impinge images on me that
slide like sweat off glass
slowing me
as I wait for ideas
not realising that it is
thinking and not the thought
that made me a poet.
How strange is it to be a resurrected poet
No feeling but impassion
No thoughts but frames
Strange as an automation
Unaffected the dead poet rises
unloved
unloving
still dead
The vicious backlash of creativity
The voice of a naked poet
lies alone
like a pregnant sore
stringing loneliness
except for the friendship of
maggots and the bloody rocks
on which it looks forth
on existence
and weeps
for it cannot hit.